


One Small Step For Man

by lesbianireneadler (appettence)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Happy Ending, John is a police officer, Light Angst, M/M, Missing Persons, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Set in America, Temporary Amnesia, but the boys are still from england, sherlock works at NASA
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 21:23:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16071623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appettence/pseuds/lesbianireneadler
Summary: John Watson has done his best to keep living ever since his husband, Sherlock, went missing almost two years ago. He still goes to work, gets the rent paid, and does what he has to do.But whenever he finds a picture with Sherlock in it, alive and well, his whole world seems to turn upside down within under a minute.Sherlock would have never just walked out on him. Right?





	1. Like Water

**Author's Note:**

> heyyyy i'm dumb and i suck at descriptions but WHIP anyways

_ Sherlock Holmes, director of the intelligence division at NASA, looking for a roommate. _

_ Sherlock Holmes, roommate. _

_ Sherlock Holmes. _

_ Sherlock. _

_ Love. _

_ Sweetheart. _

_ Fiance. _

_ Husband. _

_ Missing. _

Dead.

 

Some nights, whenever the day had been really bad, or John was just particularly stressed, he would forget that Sherlock wasn’t there. He would open up the door to their house and fully expect to see Sherlock, hunched over their kitchen table, so into whatever shit he was working on that day that he wouldn’t even realize John had walked in until he would kiss the side of his head. He would make dinner for two, only to realize there was only one. He would lie down, back aching and muscles tense from a long day at work or cramped in his cop car, and bury his face in his pillow whenever he suddenly realized that Sherlock wasn’t going to follow and make some sarcastic remark about getting old as he began to work the kinks from his back and shoulders with what anyone else would have assumed was years of practice, but in reality, was only Sherlock’s in depth understanding of John’s body, and John’s body alone.

 

He would wake up with a gasp in the middle of the night, covered in his own cold sweat and shaking, and turn with tears in the corner of his eyes, only to realize that Sherlock wasn’t lying beside him and there to comfort him whenever he needed it most.

 

John closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose as he thought about the empty house that waited for him whenever his shift was over. He often took shifts that went later for this reason alone, and had more hours than anyone else in his department.

 

_ The man who’s so sad he actually enjoys working _ . He knows his coworkers call him that behind his back. He frankly can’t even be bothered enough to care.

 

His partner, Greg, who sits in the driver’s seat, glances over at him whenever he sighs out and raises his eyebrows in slight concern before he looks back out to the road. Greg had been a big support system in his life after Sherlock went missing-- he was the only person who hadn’t mocked John whenever he refused to give up, and the only person he knew that would stop the other men from making side remarks at the station about his missing spouse being a husband and not a wife like the rest of them had waiting for them at home. He waited a moment before he finally asked, “Another rough day?”

 

John nodded as he looked out the window, watching the rushing waters of the river under the bridge they were passing over. Sometimes, late at night, he wished he was made of water. “Yeah,” He said, clearing his throat before he looked over at Greg, “Didn’t get much sleep last night. I’m alright though.” He managed an indignant shrug and a smile, still thinking of the calm that lied beneath the water and how the sunlight peered in through the waves as they moved.

 

“You sure?” Greg asked, eyes still on the road. John only nodded and adjusted himself in his seat to sit more upright.

 

“Yeah,” He waved a hand dismissively, scoffing a laugh out like it was no big deal, “You know how it is, my mind is just kind of...somewhere else.”  _ In the water. Anywhere else. _ He laughed lightly to release the tension.

 

John wasn’t always like this. He wasn’t a constant walking example of depression and grief, he still went out for drinks and did his job without any distractions like it was just another day in a 9 to 5 life. He had told himself that he was entitled to bad days, just like anyone else, but he wasn’t entitled to bad years. Radiating misery and a reminder that  _ hey, that guy’s husband is dead  _ no matter where he went would just make everyone else around him miserable and cost him much more than his own sanity.

 

And even on his bad days, he had become incredibly good at faking it. Whenever Sherlock was around, he would always make comments about “human nature” that John never really did understand-- he wasn’t so daft that he  _ couldn’t  _ understand it, but more so he didn’t even see a point in thinking about it. People will be how they are and that was that. But, without Sherlock there to constantly remind John that there was a certain level of science behind how people react, he found himself making these deductions on his own. And as annoying as it was, it helped him get by day-to-day. People, unless they really, really cared about you, were inclined to ignore signs that someone wasn’t okay mentally because they simply couldn’t be bothered, so all it took was a gentle dismissive haha-yeah-man-its-whatever laugh and a comment about a restless night or something along those lines.

 

Even Greg, who had been John’s partner since they first began patrolling, was none the wiser. He smiled and reached over with one hand to pat John’s knee probably much harder than he intended to. “Good!” He said happily, reaching over to switch the sirens on, making John jump gently and snap his eyes back to the road, “You’re going to want to be on Earth for this.”

 

At first, John wasn’t sure what Greg was even talking about. He spotted nothing out of the ordinary until Greg turned the quiet street corner even more, and his face fell at the sight. 

 

Christ, people were idiots. 

 

In the middle of the street, there stood a man with matted blonde hair that had clearly been pulled at, holding a stuffed pink bunny rabbit and rotating in a steady, yet dizzy, circle, drool pooling out of his mouth so much that he had created a small puddle at his feet and soaked his boots, making them shine. Greg looked absolutely excited as they exited the car, and John found himself rolling his eyes and smiling gently at the familiarity of it all.

 

Neither of them would admit it, but this was one of the reasons the two of them loved to patrol as much as they did. The thought that anything could happen, especially in a city like Cape Canaveral, while they rode around and simply enjoyed each other’s company or answered the casual disturbance calls or whatever it was that came on the radio. And then occasionally, something like this would happen, and they had a great story to go along with it. Greg, obviously, enjoyed the little bit of  _ something _ to do much more than John did, though.

 

John was always the one who ended up filling out any necessary paperwork. 

 

John ended up staying behind, near the car but still prepared to take action if necessary, while Greg walked up carefully to the man to see if he could catch his attention. The blonde haired man stopped briefly for a moment, as if to show he registered they were there, before he continued in his tedious circle. Greg looked back at John, chuckled a bit, before he took a step closer and attempted to reach for the arm that was held up in the air with a bunny rabbit in it so he could lower it. The man let him, but only stopped his circle whenever the pain in his twisting arm reminded his brain, that was completely gone and off somewhere away from Earth, that he couldn’t twist around forever. He stopped and stared blankly at Greg, but seemed to be looking beyond him somehow. 

 

Drugs were dangerous things, John thought, while somewhere distant in his mind that he didn’t totally register, he secretly thought about how he would like to be in that man’s place. Completely gone, aside from physically, without a care in the world. John imagined it might be like being under the water.

 

Greg’s voice brought him back to the real world. “Sir?” He asked, snapping his fingers gently in front of the man’s face, “Sir, can you hear me? What did you take?”

 

They both knew it was extremely tedious and unnecessary to ask a man that clearly far gone anything, let alone ask him to recall everything he’d taken, but it was just part of what they were required to do. Greg looked back at John for a moment, and John nodded a silent go ahead, before Greg nodded back and pulled his pair of handcuffs from his belt and took the stuffed bunny from the man before gently pulling his hands behind his back and cuffing them. 

 

*

 

The ride back to the station is always, to John at least, the worst part of detaining someone. The man wasn’t exactly trouble-- he was handcuffed and stuffed into the back of their patrol car easily, and honestly the worst thing he was doing was drooling all over their floors and seat-- but the air changed. Everything became much less  _ how was your day, Jim? _ and more tense, stemming simply from the knowledge that there was a criminal of some sorts in the back seat. John found himself fidgeting uncomfortably as Greg focused on the road on the way back. 

 

Once they made it back to the station, they made quick work of getting the man settled. They searched him quickly, took whatever possessions he had on him, and put him in a examination room so he could sober up before they questioned him. It was all extremely boring, and John was glad that he wasn’t the one who had to do it. It was the boring parts of this job that he absolutely couldn’t stand, but overall, the reward was satisfying at the end of the day. The general knowledge that, even if he’d done something small, he made a small impact for (hopefully) the better of the city and the people in it.

 

That thought was the one thing that kept him going, sometimes.

 

He pushed himself off of the wall he had resigned himself to rest against whenever he noticed Greg carrying the man’s possessions and moving to put them into the ugly, paper bags they had for temporarily detained items-- a budget cut took away their “fancy” plastic bags-- and let out a small sigh of boredom. “Have anything interesting on him?”

 

“Nah,” Greg shook his head and shrugged, not looking up as he shoved what looked like a high school class ring into a smaller bag, “Just some jewelry, a wallet, and a folded up photo.”

 

“Mmm? A photo?” John asked, raising an eyebrow and chuckling a little. Once, after arresting a man for shoplifting, Greg had been the one to stumble upon the several folded-up pages of explicit playboy magazine pages that he’d had stuffed in his back pocket. Ever since then, everyone had an ongoing joke that every photo Greg would find would have some level of tits on it, and Greg was the only one who was allowed to handle photos anymore for “luck’s sake.”

 

“Yeah,” Greg laughed as he handed it over to John, “Nothing good, though. Just some staff photo at that one bar upstate, you know? I forget the name. We went there on a bet one time, after Molly bet us that we wouldn’t go there and get her one of their burgers.”

 

“Oh, yeah!” John laughed at the memory. Molly’s face had been absolutely priceless, even Sherlock had gotten a kick out of it. “Green Mountain Bar, right?” He opened up the folded photo and smiled at how fast he recognized the decorations, then scanned the group of people that were all by the bar, in a overly happy staff group photo at what had to be a christmas celebration, based on the elf themed work clothes and the christmas hats. Everyone smiled or did their own joyful pose, aside from the man in the middle on the back row, who had been caught in the middle of adjusting his hat.

 

It took John a moment to fully register what he was looking at, his mind partially still on the day trip he and Greg had taken to the bar, and partially on how happy everyone looked, like they were all friends that had known each other for years. But once it clicked in his head what his eyes had fallen on, his face fell so fast that even Greg, who wasn’t looking at him directly, noticed and turned to look at him. 

 

“John? You alright, mate?”

 

John suddenly felt like, for the first time since Sherlock’s disappearance, that he was ready to admit that he most certainly was  _ not okay _ .

 

Because there, in the middle, adjusting his hat with a small pout on his face that John knew all too well, was his husband.

 

He looked up at Greg with wide eyes, attempting to speak, but before he could get a word out, every emotion John felt came rushing too him so fast he felt himself stumble back, land hard against the ground, and then all at once, everything was black.

 

*

_ “Are you...Sherlock Holmes?” John looked down at the flyer he had in his hand nervously, before he looked back up at the curly haired man and licked his lips. “I’m here about the roommate advert-” _

 

_ “Yes, yes,” Sherlock cut him off quickly and stepped out of the way of the doorway, motioning politely for John to enter, “Come on in.” _

 

_ John had to admit, he had been skeptical about even considering the roommate ad in the first place. It was the twenty-first century, and he wasn’t sure that anyone who wasn’t on crack would still print bloody flyers and place them all over town, but suddenly, standing in the doorway of the brilliantly gorgeous possible roommate that apparently worked at NASA, all doubt faded away. _

 

_ The flyer was still odd, though. _

 

_ John did exactly what Sherlock requested and stepped inside, glancing around at the cozily decorated apartment before he walked over and took a seat on the couch. Sherlock took a seat in the leather loveseat across from him. _

 

_ “You clearly know mine, but what might your name be?” He asked immediately, getting straight to the point. John wondered absently if he had come at a bad time, as Sherlock spoke and acted as if he were busy and didn’t have much time. _

 

_ “Ehm, John Watson.” John said, crossing his ankles and nodding, not bothering to get too comfortable. “I work--” _

 

_ “You’re a police officer, I know. You’re stationed here locally in Cape Canaveral, I’m assuming, because your jacket has a gentle crease in the side from where a car door was shut on it, but not on the left side where the driver’s side would be, which tells me that you took a cab. No one in their right mind gets an apartment a city over if they don’t own a car themselves.” _

 

_ Sherlock spoke fast, but with absolute skill, as if predicting a piece of John’s life without knowing any more than his name was an absolutely normal thing. John was stunned, and yet weirdly grateful; he’d never been much of a talker, and if Sherlock could simply glance at him and know, then he didn’t even have to do much talking. _

 

_ “Well, I--” John stuttered, not even sure what to say. He was right. _

 

_ “What’s interesting, though, is your accent. London, right? What is a man from London doing here in Cape Canaveral, Florida working as a police officer?” _

 

_ John couldn’t help the gentle smile that played at his lips. Sherlock seemed to lose his concentration for a moment whenever he finally let himself chuckle gently, but quickly composed himself as if someone had hit his hand with a ruler. _

 

_ “I came here because I originally planned to go to an American school, but,” He shrugged casually, “that didn’t work out.” _

 

_ “So you became a police officer instead?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow. _

 

_ “Aren’t you a smart one.” John chuckled. _

 

_ Sherlock looked him up and down for a moment, as if that remark had triggered something in him, before he leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. _

 

_ “What are your hygiene habits like, John?” _

 

_ “I clean up my own messes, but I won’t mess with anyone else’s, unless it’s absolutely out of hand. I’m a grown man, but not a maid.” _

 

_ “Do you stay out late often?” _

 

_ “Aside from the occasional drink out with friends, no. I enjoy the comfort of home.” _

 

_ “I work a lot, and often bring my work home with me. I have my own methods of organization that may not make sense to you, but work for me. I don’t have an office, so I use the kitchen table often. Will that be an issue?”  _

 

_ “I don’t see why it would be.” John shrugged. _

 

_ Sherlock huffed a breath out of his nose as he leaned forward gently, narrowing his eyes as he looked at John as if he were a sample under a microscope: searching, but curious. As if he wasn’t sure what to expect from him.  _

 

_ John didn’t squirm under his gaze, but kept his hands folded against one of his knees and glanced absently around the apartment. It was a nice place. A little messy here and there, but that’s to be expected from a working man who lives on his own. _

 

_ “Alright,” Sherlock said eventually, “Finally, do you have a girlfriend or a boyfriend?” _

 

_ “Ah, no.” John shook his head. He wondered for a moment why that was relevant, but just assumed it was because Sherlock might not like extra guests coming over. “I’ve been too busy as of late.” _

 

_ Sherlock watched him for another moment, before he nodded and sat back. _

 

_ “How soon can you be moved in?” _

 

_ Really? John found himself raising his eyebrows gently at that. It was that easy? No, I’ll call you later? No consideration? He huffed out a laugh. _

 

_ “How soon would you like?” _

 

*

 

Whenever John came to again, he groaned as the light of the break room in the station hit his eyes. His head had a low thrum of pain in the back, most likely from where his head had hit the floor, and the fact that Molly immediately began to yell, “He’s awake! He’s alright!” didn’t help much. 

 

For a moment, he couldn’t recall what had happened that had landed him in the floor with his head resting gently in Molly’s lap, her tiny hands holding him carefully. He felt as if he were made of glass in that moment. And whenever everything came back to him, his heart quickly speeding up and beginning to race, he felt as if he were already broken and Molly was simply attempting to put him back together.

 

“Where’s the picture?” Was the first thing he asked, sitting up slowly with a grimace. Molly glanced at Greg for help, who mouthed, _ “I have no idea what to do, either!” _ before he looked back at John.    
  


“It’s still with his possessions, mate, what-”

 

“How long ago was it taken?”

 

“John-”

 

“How long ago was it taken?” John stressed.

 

Greg hesitated a moment, adjusting the belt on his uniform as he considered if it were a good idea to tell John at all, before he licked his lips and answered quietly, “The date was labeled last Christmas Eve.”

 

“Oh, god.” John suddenly felt absolutely, ridiculously sick. He closed his eyes as he swallowed, as if that would keep his racing heart in its rightful place in his chest and his stomach away from his throat. “Oh god.”

 

“Why, John? What-” Greg stopped whenever John stood up, glancing back and forth between him and Molly before he followed him to the door. “John, wait, you aren’t well! You just fell and hit your head, you probably have a concus-”

 

“To hell with the goddamned concussion!” John yelled loudly. Greg visibly distanced himself. Even after everything that happened with Sherlock, John never had a temper and was always extremely careful with people, even if they didn’t have John’s best interest in mind. It had been, or at least what Sherlock claimed it had been, what made John his better half.

 

“Sherlock was in that photo! It was him, standing there, same as the first day we met.” His voice grew quieter as he reached the end of his sentence and his eyes fell, as he considered the possibility that Sherlock had simply grew tired of John and  _ ran away _ . He pushed the door open as his shoulders straightened again and he looked ahead of himself.

 

“I- Where are you going?” Greg asked, frowning as he followed behind John, but stopped halfway to the main exit that led to the parking lot.

 

John didn’t glance back at him.

 

“I’m going to see my husband.”

 


	2. The Art of Being Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes it to the bar, but instead of finding Sherlock, he discovers that a "William" has taken his place.
> 
> Funny thing is, Sherlock has always hated his first name. So why change it to that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops why am i such a shite writer

If you knew John Watson, you knew that he was never a man that rushed into anything. He always preached that it was a recipe for disaster; rushing caused you to make stupid mistakes, leave things behind, and forget to look at the whole picture as well as the consequences of making a mistake in the long run.

 

And yet, after leaving the police station and getting a cab to take him home, he was sure that he was packed and ready to leave faster than he’d done anything in his life. He packed a bag full of clothes, not even bothering with folding them, grabbed the travel toiletry bag that he knew Sherlock had kept tucked under the sink, grabbed his phone and charger, and whatever food that he had in the kitchen that wouldn’t go bad or needed to be cooked, before he caught another cab and had them drive him to the nearest car rental place.

 

Sherlock had always despised the idea of owning a car, so they never even bothered looking into getting one. He swore that the price of owning one, plus the price of constantly filling up the tank would always be way higher in comparison to how much they spent on cab rides. John had never minded-- he was in a car nearly 80% of the time at work-- and, if he was being honest with himself, he never really had much of a say in the matter. If Sherlock thought strongly about something, especially if he thought negatively about it, there was no way you were going to change his mind. Attempting to do so would just cause him to throw a fit and pout, or even worse, not speak for days.

 

John had always wondered which was worse.

 

He ended up choosing something that was sized just big enough for him to sleep in it, figuring that if he was already making his now suddenly-not-missing husband’s worst nightmare come true, he might as well not waste money on hotel rooms while he was at it. If everything went how John was expecting it to, he wouldn’t even have to sleep in it aside from maybe a nap on the road, and he and Sherlock would be back in their apartment in no time.

 

A sense of dread filled him at the thought that it would be easy, though. As much as he would like to be able to drive upstate and say, “hey, love, let’s go home and fix some dinner and maybe have a nice bath,” that would also mean that Sherlock had simply made the choice to not come back. Sherlock was far from an idiot, anyone would know that, so unless something absolutely horrible was going on, he surely would have come back.

 

Right?

 

Sherlock would have never walked out on him. 

 

Right.

 

John didn’t hesitate to get on the road once everything was set, thanking the car dealer before he hopped inside, tucking his stuff into the floor of the back seat where he would be sleeping, and heading off upstate. As he drove and listened to some preacher on the radio scream about redemption and God coming back to earth (not his first choice, he would admit, but he wasn’t bothered enough to pay it any attention at all. Once, he remembered that he told Sherlock his first choice for radio was country and Sherlock nearly divorced him right there) he wondered about Sherlock. He wondered if he was using again- a habit he’d had and kicked before he met John, but still struggled with from time to time whenever things were just too much- or if he had been eating enough, as he’d been prone to forgetting whenever he was too wrapped up in work. Anyone other than John would have been concerned about the “what’s” and “why’s”- what happened, why he left. Why he didn’t come back. But John? John was concerned about whether or not Sherlock was getting enough sleep.

 

He could practically hear Greg make some remark about,  _ “If that doesn’t describe good ol’ Johnny, then I’m not sure what does!” _

 

As John drove, he found himself completely spacing out, drowning out every noise aside from his own heartbeat as he seemed to simply continue driving on autopilot. He had a habit of doing so whenever he drove, which was why you would always catch Greg in the drivers side of their patrol car and only John on extremely rare days whenever Greg seemed too tired to worry about how attentive John was on the road. He thought about everything under the sun as he weaved through cars and lanes, taking every necessary shortcut or cheat on the road so he could get to the bar where Sherlock hopefully was faster. He thought about how wrinkly his shirts were going to look after being stuck in that bag, and how maybe, if he was really, really lucky, Sherlock might let him finally get a dog whenever all this blew over.

 

But most importantly, he thought about how fucking insane this was. Leaving his apartment and everything behind, if even only for a short while, without a single word or question, just to chase his missing husband of two goddamn years that he was supposed to spend the rest of his life with.

 

He was so lost in thought that he almost didn’t hear his phone ringing, and managed to catch it just before he missed it. It was Greg, of course. He’d be stupid to not expect that much.

 

“Hello?” He answered after a moment, cursing the slight nervous crack in his voice as if everything he was doing was just beginning to set in.

 

“John? Holy hell, mate, are you alright? Where’d you go? We tried following you but we lost you too fast. What’s happening?” Greg’s barrage of questions started immediately, and John felt his shoulders relax lightly as he moved to hold his phone against his shoulder with his cheek.

 

“I’m alright, Greg, I promise. I’m just headed upstate. Hopefully I’ll be back before work tomorrow.” John sighed.

 

Greg wasn’t letting up. “Upstate? What the hell you doing that for?”

 

John rolled his eyes. He could be rather dense sometimes. “To get my husband, I told you that already!”

 

“Sherlock-”   
  


“Is in that picture. I know he is.”

 

“It could have been anyone, Johnny. It wasn’t exactly high quality.”

 

John’s face fell, completely deadpan. “It was him. And if it isn’t, then so be it. But I’m not just going to leave him.”

 

Greg was silent for a moment, nothing but the sound of traffic on Greg’s end and that same preacher John had accidentally left yelling on the radio. Then he finally sighed shakily and said, “Okay. Keep me updated, please. I’ll come for help if necessary.”

 

John felt his muscles relax again, and let out a small huff of a laugh through his nose. Even when he had no one, at least he always had Greg. “Sure thing, Greggy. Give Molly a hug for me, will you?” 

 

Greg chucked on the other end, “Sure thing, Johnny.”

 

And then the other end of the phone went dead with a gentle click, and John felt immensely better than he did before Greg had called. Even if it was clear that he was only humoring John for the sake of his friend’s health, it was support nonetheless. He could hear Sherlock’s deep voice somewhere in the back of his mind chuckling in the way that he did whenever something amused him that didn’t seem to amuse anyone else,

 

_ “Funny thing, don’t you think? The need for people to seek the approval of others, just so they can say they aren’t alone?” _

 

Right scary fucker he could be sometimes, but John could never, in the several years they knew each other, ever say Sherlock Holmes had ever been wrong about human nature.

 

*

 

John ended up making it upstate by the time the sun set, the air cooling just the slightest and the gentle chatter of the bugs joining the chorus of cars that passed along the roads. He felt even more relaxed once he realized how close he was to finally being at the bar, but he also cursed time gently under his breath. The bar was bound to be close to closing whenever he arrived there, and if not, there was only the slightest possibility that Sherlock was even going to be there. He felt as if he were playing a game with someone that was exactly his equal; everything could go his way, and everything could not. He never did like simply leaving things up to chance. 

 

His heart began to race the closer he began to get to the bar, and by the time he pulled into the halfway empty parking lot, he was almost sure that he was going to have a heart attack. Pressing his index and middle finger to his pulse point and taking a few calming breath, John stepped out of his rental and adjusted his shirt as he stepped inside.

 

Memories and fluorescent lights flooded him immediately as the door to the bar shut behind him, and he found himself counting from one to ten and repeating without even thinking about it as he walked up to the bar and took a seat. This would be fun if he were here for any other reason, and John was doing his best to relax. I _ t's not the end of the world. It’s not the end of the world. _ Distantly, he remembered the bewildered look on the bartenders face whenever he asked where he and Greg were from and they told him Cape Canaveral. The sound of Greg’s laugh, even in his mind, was so oddly familiar that it helped calm down his racing heart just the slightest.

 

“Can I get you something?” The bartender asked as he walked over- a different one than the last time they were here, John recalled, but definitely not Sherlock. It took John a minute to even realize he was speaking to him.

 

“Oh! Uh, yeah,” He said quickly, his posture perking up slightly as he mentally cursed his shaking voice, “Just a beer, I suppose.” He cleared his throat, “And, uh, is Sherlock Holmes working today?”

 

The bartender raised an eyebrow at him, and chuckled lightly as he pulled a glass from under the bar for John’s drink. “Who now? No Sherlock Holmes works here.”

 

John frowned, licking his lips as he attempted to keep the anxiety that was coming back away from himself. “But I-” He huffed, frustrated with himself and this whole situation, “I saw a picture, a staff picture, from this bar with Sherlock in it. You know...curly, black haired bloke? About six foot? Always...always questioning something?” There was a certain hidden sadness in the last bit of his sentence, just barely noticeable, but the bartender seemed to catch on to it. You spend enough time helping folks drown out their sorrows you begin to notice exactly who needs it the most, John supposed.

 

“You mean William?” The bartender asked, raising an eyebrow as if his name should have been obvious in the first place. He turned and pulled a picture from where it was clipped to the wall behind him and slid it over to John, tapping Sherlock’s face in the middle. “Him, right? That’s William.”

 

John wasn’t sure he could frown any deeper, but he did, glancing idly between the bartender and the picture as he registered the information. “William?” He asked finally, his voice hoarse as if he hadn’t used it all day, his throat having gone completely dry.

 

“Mmhm. Don’t know where you got Sherlock from.” The bartender said with a laugh, mumbling something like  _ Who names their kid Sherlock anyways _ as he turned to refill a drink for another customer. John cleared his throat as he reached for his own, shaking his head down at the picture as he gulped down as much as he could, hoping that maybe that would help him keep his head on straight.

 

“So is William here today?” He asked eventually. The bartender shook his head.

 

“Nah, Anderson is here today and he can’t stand Anderson. He works everyday that he doesn’t.”

 

“Does Anderson work tomorrow?”

 

“I don’t think so.” The bartender said with a small, indifferent shrug, then after a moment frowned and asked, “Why you wanna know anyways?”

 

John took a moment to answer, downing the rest of his scotch, before he pulled out his wallet and threw a some money onto the bar. He didn’t have the heart to tell this kid that “William” had been a missing person for nearly two years. Instead, he only shrugged and stood, nodding at him as he headed towards the door. “Him and I used to know each other, I wanted to catch up.”

 

And then he was out the door, his eyes closed as he walked blindly back to his rental. He had no idea what to think now. Sherlock goes missing, no trace of him other than a few belongings left behind, and then here he is, a few hours away and going by the name William? Something was definitely wrong. 

 

He huffed as he threw open the back door of his rental and crawled inside, thinking about everything he did wrong as a husband as he laid down and covered himself up with a jacket he had packed. Had the fights over Sherlock working too hard been too much? John’s snoring? Had he not been good enough in bed? Was he ashamed of being married to someone that wasn’t near as smart as him?

 

And then he was out like a light, snoring again, like Sherlock had possibly hated. He didn’t have time to dwell on all that. He had one task at hand, and that was finding Sherlock and Sherlock alone. 

 

To hell with all of his silly emotions.

 

*

 

_ “John.” Sherlock’s voice called from the kitchen, where Sherlock was- as he always was- hunched over the kitchen table, folders of papers sprawled around him and his single, tiny laptop that did more work than John would do in a year. At the beginning of the relationship, John would attempt to ask Sherlock what he was working on, but after the several times that the answer went right over his head, he found it easier to leave Sherlock to his own devices and simply kiss his head, telling him to take a break at some point.  _

 

_ John was perched comfortably in his chair in the living room, a book- Orientalism by Edward Said- tucked into his hands while some distant classical tune played on the radio that sat above the fireplace. To anyone else, this lifestyle seemed so “sophisticated,” but to Sherlock and John, it was simply comfortable. They didn’t boast or take pride in it, but rather just lived it, as any person that had fallen into routine would. _

 

_ “Hm? Yes?” John asked, tucking his bookmark into his book whenever he finally looked up and noticed that Sherlock had moved to stand in the doorway of the living room. Sherlock looked at him a moment, as if contemplating, before he finally said, _

 

_ “Let’s get married.” _

 

_ John frowned for a moment, then laughed, assuming Sherlock was just trying to pull something. He smiled as he stood, walking over to slip his shoes on just to play along. “Alright, love, let’s go.” He said, still laughing as he shook his head and walked back over to his chair.  _

 

_ Sherlock only narrowed his eyes at him, and John’s laughter died down as he began to squirm under his gaze, his voice going quiet. “Oh dear, you’re serious?” _

 

_ “Of course I’m serious. Why would I joke about that?” Sherlock asked, tucking his hands in pants pockets as he leaned against the door frame.  _

 

_ “What? Right now?” John asked, frowning again. “Just like that?” _

 

_ “Well, yes.” Sherlock said with a nod, as if it were no big deal. “I came to the realization, while I was working and you came by to kiss my head like you always do, that one of the reasons I continue working is because I look forward to those kisses. I quite like this. Our...correspondence. And I think I’d like to have it forever.” He blinked a few times as he looked at John, “So, yes, marriage. So that way it’s legal and all of that formal uselessness.” He rolled his eyes slightly as he walked over to sit on the couch in front of John.  _

__

_ John stared at him a moment, completely bewildered by the man in front of him that suddenly wanted to marry him. They’d been together for a good year now, so it wasn’t like they would be jumping into anything neither of them wanted, and they had fallen into a good daily routine as if they had been together for ages. John wasn’t opposed to the idea at all, it was just… _

__

_ “Sherlock Holmes, I do believe that is the sweetest thing you’ve said to me since we started dating.”  _

__

_ Sherlock went red, the tips of his ears and his cheeks heating up as he blushed like a schoolgirl that had just been caught with a crush. He had hoped that the shock of the proposal would have made John look past his reasoning, but he should have known better if he were being completely honest with himself. _

__

_ “So?” Sherlock said eventually, avoiding John’s gaze as he shifted on the couch. “What do you say? Of course, I won’t be upset if you don’t want to yet, I have a tendency to-” _

__

_ “Yes, you absolute idiot.” _

__

_ “B- what?” _

__

_ “I said yes. You know, what happy partners usually say whenever they’re proposed to?” _

__

_ Sherlock nodded, then cleared his throat, that blush still ever present on his cheeks as he stood and walked over, pressing a chaste kiss to John’s lips before he walked over and went out the door, which he left open behind him. “Let’s go, then! We’ll need a witness, so grab your wallet!” _

__

_ “I- Sherlock, wait!” John shouted after him, standing up quickly and attempting to grab everything they needed before Sherlock was in a cab and already gone without him. _

__

_ They eloped that night, with the clerk and a random man they pulled from the street and gave twenty dollars to so he would be their witness. _

__

_ There was no name change for the sake of convenience- Sherlock had listed every way that it would simply be a pain for one of them to change or hyphenate, and it just wasn’t worth it in John’s eyes to argue. _

__

_ It didn’t matter to him either way if he was being absolutely honest with himself. After everything, they would simply return home, and it would be the two of them, as it always is and as it will always be; Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. _

__

_ Husbands. _

__

*

__

John wasn’t sure what had woken him up first. The man on the radio screaming about holy redemption, which he had completely forgotten to switch off, or the gentle rap on his window. Whichever it was, he woke to a cacophony of the two, and groaned as he opened his eyes as the burn of the morning daylight peeking up behind the trees hit his eyes. 

__

_ And let it be known that he who does not accept the lord into his life shall find that a much worse fate than that on earth, and that he-  _ click!

__

“Alright, enough of that.” John mumbled tiredly to himself as he turned the radio off, scratching his face as he woke himself up more, his brain registering distantly that the rapping on his window stopped whenever he sat up, and he yawned as he turned to look out of the window in front of him.

__

Then, suddenly, the whole world stopped right there. His breath caught in his throat as everything seemed to slow down and quiet, because right there, in front of him, was Sherlock, same as he was whenever he left. 

__

And yet, the look in his eyes was completely empty. The same look you give a stranger.

__

The world came back as Sherlock began to talk, voice muffled between the glass of the window and outside where he stood.

__

“Sir? Are you alright?”

__

And all of a sudden, John wasn’t so sure about the answer to that question.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont actually know if you can get married without changing a last name but, for the sake of this, we'll pretend


End file.
